That Which Unites Us

[Nathandiel]

Nathandiel scratched absently at his neck as entered his office. He pulled of his scarf and draped it on one of the hooks on the coat stand. He dropped his key ring on the side table, a soft clatter of metal on wood peppering the silence in the dark chamber. He lit the oil lamp and tucked his lighter back into his over coat before shrugging out of it and hanging it up.

The lamp provided enough light to ensure he had a safe trip around the room, lighting wall sconces and candles. Not all of the staff offices were privy to electricity and persons like himself made due with the older methods of casting light upon their daily toils.

The light set's the mood though. He thought. This was true. The underground facility was a vault of suffering shrouded in darkness and apathy. The light cast by flames suited it's sinister purpose and no where did he feel the chill of his macabre surroundings more than in the sanctum of his private office. This where where he carried on his duties as if they were civil, as if they were worthy of professional conduct. This was where evil really loomed over his shoulder.

He sat down at his desk and opened the middle drawer, taking out a rumpled package of cigarettes. He lit one and sat back, his eyes falling to the stack of patient files that had been left for him. He'd been away for a few days and they had piled up. Mharren Sil'Orah had put one of her underlings in charge of his 'patients', but he would still need to review the charts and make the appropriate signatures. He made no move to begin.

His thoughts fell to the past three days; to his application to The Grim, to the man under whom he was now a supplicant, and to the satisfying tryst he'd had with his new Kitten. At the thought of her he smiled. She was sweeter than she pretended to be and he was glad he had pursued her. He fingered his lower lip thoughtfully and it seemed he could recall her warmth. In a place as cold as this a man needed the warmth of a woman.

The Grim were an interesting bunch and he thought he could learn much about how things were done in the East by moving amongst them. None of them had seemed particularly impressed by him, if anything they had toyed with him, calling him quick-tongued and making reference to his ethnicity as an Elf. He chuckled at that; race would always divide people, regardless of what brought them together.

The Dreadweaver - Atticus Grace - had given him the task of killing a little over a thousand members of the Alliance in order to complete his first trial. "Ye have a month to do it, but if ye want te make a good impression on sweet old Attie, do it in a week." Grace had said, speaking in that broken dialect of Orcish that made Nathandiel's insides curl. Nathandiel had decided to do it in two days, but then he'd been with Kitten. She'd gotten his undivided attention.

She's going to be a distraction...He thought with a sly smirk. She would be, but she'd also be a welcomed one. He'd have Grace's request fulfilled by the next time The Grim came together. A thousand people were not so many and if he found himself lacking insignias he worked in the perfect institution in which to collect more. He suspected Grace meant for him to fulfill his quota on the battlefields, not in the operating theater, and that was fine, but if worse came to worst Nathandiel had options.

He closed his eyes and swiveled slowly back and forth in his chair. He was tired and there was much to be done. It was a never-ending pile-up of work, of patients needing actual treatment and prisoners needing to be surgically altered or put down entirely. He had not trained as surgeon specifically but his employers didn't care what abbreviation followed the name on his diploma, they cared if he could cut. He had turned out to be a better flesh mechanic than he'd ever anticipated and there was something fulfilling in the heartless work. His employers gave him the opportunity to violate his oaths and with that had come the affirmation that despite his selection of an altruistic profession, he was still more a primordial monster than he was a man.

He opened his eyes and tucked into his desk. He opened the first file and reached for his quill. He'd make quick work of his duties, then perhaps he would sleep. Once he was rested he would go back to the fields and reap what there was to sow.

Then he'd present the harvest to Grace.

[Nathandiel]

Pranks. They were so rarely entertaining for both parties.

Nathandiel rolled onto his back, sat up, and pressed his palms into his eyes. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd gotten but his eyelids still felt heavy and his limbs were ataxic. He rubbed his thigh where she'd stabbed him, remembering the flare in her eyes and the grin on her face as she'd depressed the plunger on the syringe.

When they'd placed the bet he'd been sure he'd win because he didn't adhere to any sense of honour. There was no such thing as 'playing dirty' because there was no such thing as 'playing clean'. One just played. He played to win.

Didn't win this time.No. He definitely hadn't. He twisted and reached for the boxclock on the table by the bed. He blinked rapidly and felt his lip curl. He hadn't just lost the bet with her, he'd missed the gathering of The Grim.

He'd missed presenting his insignia's to Grace.

He cursed and threw back the covers. He swayed a bit as he stood and held out his arms to regain his balance. He marched towards his dresser, to the box where he'd kept the insignias. He opened it, suddenly sure the girl he'd amused himself with had amused herself with his things. All looked to be in order. He'd met more than his quota. Sadly he'd have to wait to present them.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser and he froze. It seemed the girl had amused herself with her make-up; using his face as a canvas. He shook his head, his heavily-shadowed eyes now alight with mirth. "Women..." He muttered. He blew himself a kiss from his red-painted lips and wandered back to bed to sleep off the rest of the drugs.

[Nathandiel]

Nathandiel yawned as he rolled onto his back. He flung out and arm and found only emptiness. He smiled at this as he took the blanket between his fingers and coaxed out the last of her warmth. He hadn't expected her to stay, but still he was a touch disappointed. He supposed, however, that when you had a woman on a bed covered with a bear skin you couldn't expect them to stay.

He stay up and rubbed his face slowly. The small window in his room at the Axefall in was covered but the slender slivers of light that peeked out from the covering told him the sun had to be well into the sky. All this time out in the sun and the fresh air was making him extra tired and he slept in far too often.

He rolled over and reached for his bag, digging into blindly with one hand while he plucked his spectacles off the side table with the other. He pulled out his notebook and his dictation recorder and sat up, spreading the notebook open on his lap. He perched his glasses on his nose and his notes came into sharper focus.

"Tradire..." He said softly, underlining the name with his index finger. For a dead chick she was sufficiently attractive. Her story had been one he'd heard reiterated enough times in the Undercity that he fought the urge to simple ignore her length of the tape and make a write up without it. Scourge had thwarted her simple dreams and the simple lives of the simple people she had cared for. Now she had aligned herself with an organization that had given her purpose; The Grim. She was a classic dependent in denial.

He looked at the empty space in his bed a moment and decided it was better that she hadn't stayed. He didn't want her listening to his recorded notes and he certainly didn't want her inquiring about the deductions he had set out to make. He had his own notes on her and he thought she wouldn't like that very much.

He flipped through a few more pages and found the second subject, another dead chick; Anaie. Now there was a dead chick with some problems. He smiled a little at the preliminary diagnosis he'd made at the top of the first page. 'Paranoid-Type Schizophrenia' was circled aggressively in black ink. He didn't need his notes to remind him that she'd been under the unfortunate persuasion that eyes she had taken from other creatures spoke to her...or that the eyes had told her she wasn't allowed to tell him what they were saying.

He took a breath and laid back. He rested the inconspicuous recording device on his abdomen and slid the play button and Tradire's ethereal voice began. "My family kept a small shop, we were basic tradesmen. My brothers were smiths, cousins that would tailor. Word came of the advancing scourge, and the fact the Alliance factions left us without any aide."

He closed his eyes and listened.